


On Reflection

by Asa_Meda



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Multi, Slash, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asa_Meda/pseuds/Asa_Meda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm currently going through my very, very old fan stories for this archive.  I don't really write Highlander anymore (I'm not really a "Duncan" fan after the fourth season.  But I AM a METHOS fan... and a JOE fan... so wrote three stories.  Hope it is enjoyed for what it is!</p><p>This story was written in 1996, and is the longest story I've ever written.  It is a "three-some" between Methos/Joe/Duncan, though it is mostly Methos/Joe and a small bit of Methos/Duncan.  It is my reaction to the episode "Band of Brothers" in which Charlie DeSalvo was killed and the friendship between Duncan and Dawson was seriously damaged... mostly by (in my opinion) Duncan's lack of understanding.</p><p>Also the story could somewhat be AU in a sense</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
_"It's either this or that way  
It's one way or the other  
It should be one direction  
It could be on reflection…  
Anything Is… Enya_   


 

Pain seeped into his consciousness. Slowly he became aware of the throbbing in his head, the bright light burning into his closed eyes. And his stomach...

“Christ!" Joseph Dawson groaned, moving his body carefully. He was on the floor, his arms splayed, his legs... Joe opened his eyes, focusing on the window across the living room of his one bedroom apartment. Daylight. “Damn,” he muttered, moving his arms, preparing to sit up. In response, his stomach rebelled, his head cracked with agony. Dawson cried out as he lay back down on the hardwood floor. How long have I been out? The smell of urine wafted to his nostrils, informing him he’d been out far too long.

And all this for what? Joe asked himself. For an immortal who didn’t give a damn. An immortal he shouldn’t have been getting close to anyway simply because he’s immortal. //Oh god, look what you’ve done now, Joseph!//

A slight sound and the vibration of soft footsteps caught Joe’s attention. Had he left the door unlocked? No, he was sober enough when he came home... last night? He couldn’t quite remember. He forced this brain to sort it. Only four people in the universe had a key to his place. Amanda. Adam. Richie. And… “Get out of here, Mac! I don’t want to see you!" he called out in the angriest voice he could manage. “Get out!”

“When I’ve only just arrived?" a light,oddly accented voice replied.

//Shit!// A cold chill wafted through Joe. “Methos," he whispered, wishing he could die on the spot.

“For the moment,” Methos replied without emotion. Joe sensed his friend draw nearer. “You’re a pathetic sight.”

Shame worked its way against the pain and general sickness. The feel of gentle hands touching him startled him out of his stupor. “Don’t!" he protested as he was carefully turned, his limbs straightened out. "Just get out!” He tried to slap the helping hands away.

“Good,” Methos encouraged. “There’s some spirit in you yet." Precise fingers moved over Dawson’s body, over his shirt to his pants, pressing and examining. “Looks like you took a fall." *Sniff* "Smells like you drank enough to cushion the pain quite nicely.”

“Fuck you!" Joe continued to swat with his hands, frustrated to find only empty air. “Just go away! I've had enough of immortals! I can take care of myself!”

“And a fine job you’ve been doing up to now." Methos' voice lost its light banter and took on an edge. “Joe, you’re hurt and hungover. You’ve got a bump on your head and a cut to go with it." His hands continued their exam.

Dawson groaned. The strong, aristocratic face hovered above his. Hazel eyes were bright with a variety of complex emotions Joe couldn’t quite separate. It was the mystery of this man, a young man's face holding an ancient gaze. “I want to be left alone,” he tried one more time.

“No you don’t." Hair was lightly brushed from Dawson’s forehead. "I’m here to help you... and Duncan.”

The mention of the Highlander's name revived Joe's fury. “What do you know about Duncan and me! Did he call you? Send you? Is that why you’re here?”

Methos sighed. “No, Joe. He doesn’t know anything about this." His eyes lifted to scan the apartment. “Where’s your wheelchair?”

Dawson sighed, finally completely defeated as he heard the truth in Methos' words. “In the bedroom." Without another word, Methos disappeared.

The immortal had been here once, just after Duncan had called from Paris a year ago to inform Joe that Adam Pierson was Methos. By then the American had known Pierson for nearly ten years. And in all that time, Joe never suspected the “grad” student who was given the thankless job of keeping records on an elusive ancient immortal was actually Methos himself. He simply enjoyed Adam’s company. They shared many interests. Joe even imagined they could have a relationship. But at the time he thought Pierson to be half his own age. And what would Adam find interesting in an old guy with no legs anyway? Then there was the matter of gender.

Watchers are a conservative lot. Gay Watchers were barely accepted. When one was discovered, even strongly suspected, life was made difficult, promotion was impossible.

Joe bit his lip and shifted. His whole body was reporting in now. His stumps were killing him. Stumps. For the last twenty-five year it was a fact of life. Most times he managed... it didn't matter. But sometimes there would be a look... a frown... a turning away. On occastion it bothered him. Even Horton insisted on reminding him from time to time how useless he was. But in his friendship with Adam he found someone who didn't care, who assisted nearly invisibly. Then there was Duncan MacLeod. His attitude was much the same, helping without calling attention to it. For Joe it was was the first time he felt at ease. He could show a little weakness. But still he held back some things... his attractions to these men. With MacLeod it had been easy. There was Tessa. With Adam it had been harder but Joe had long decided that celebacy was safest for so many reasons.

But Tessa was murdered. Richie died and awoke Immortal. Then life settled again. Then, a month ago, MacLeod returned to Scotland... to the place of his birth, Glenfinnan. Even if he wasn’t already Mac’s friend, Dawson the Watcher had to find out what was going on.

During those few day, something changed between them. Dawson learned more than most Watchers ever dared to dream about an immortal’s past. MacLeod searched for the grave of a young woman, Deborah Campbell. Four hundred years ago, before his first death, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod tried to get permission to marry her. But instead Deborah was promised to his cousin, Robert. The results were tragic. Robert died at MacLeod’s hands. Deborah fell from a ridge in a suicide attempt turned accident.

But there was more. There was an immortal lurking in Glenfinnan, one who was murdering innocent mortals in ritual sacrifice. His name was Kanwulf, a Viking. If only for this, MacLeod would have taken the Viking’s head to stop the killing. But there was one more piece to the puzzle.

//He killed my father!//

Dawson closed his eyes, remembering the glow of vengeance in the Highlander’s dark eyes, the bone deep anger he projected. The Watcher had tried to interfere, had asked MacLeod to give the Viking what he wanted, then leave. It was stupid. It was wrong. But the thought of losing Duncan was too overwhelming. For the first time he didn’t care if MacLeod might be ‘the One’ spoken of in legends, so long as he was out of danger.

 

 **[Glenfinnan, Scotland.... One Month Ago]**

 _Dawson sat on the thin mattress of the bed in Duncan MacLeod’s room at the Leuni Inn, waiting. Mac had been gone for two hours and Dawson felt every minute passed like an eternity. His ears were sensitive to every creak and step outside the door._

Across his lap was Duncan’s weapon, his katana, the sword MacLeod had used to protect himself for nearly 250 years. Scottish authorities had returned it shortly after Mac left, saying it was a fine weapon, but not the murder weapon they were seeking. Both he and Duncan MacLeod were free to go about their business.

Little did they know.

Nearly a half hour ago Joe had heard the thunder, the kind of thunder he always recognized as a Quickening. He’d seen the flash of lightening in the short distance between the little inn and the fields where he knew the two men fought. As the Watcher assigned to watch MacLeod, he should have been there to witness the event, to see the results. But all he could do was sit on the bed, stare at the sword he held and wonder when his beliefs had really changed... when he’d fallen in love with MacLeod in a way that went beyond physical attraction.

Quiet, well-measured footsteps came up the wooden stairs then down the hallway. Joe Dawson tensed, gripping the hilt of MacLeod’s katana in anticipation as the door began to open. If it was not MacLeod, then he would do his best to put Kanwulf to rest.

“Joe?" Duncan’s head popped through the door, followed shortly by the rest of him. He was dirty. His face was covered with dust. His shirt was cut and torn. The Highlander had been injured but those injuries were gone but all that remained were the bloodstains to hint at what really happened. Joe watched him, felt relief and an even stronger emotion he didn’t want to face.

“Joe, are you all right?” MacLeod put his father’s broadsword, the weapon he’d used to take Kanwulf's head, aside and knelt in front of the American.

Trembling began in the pit of Joe's stomach then spread until his whole body shook. Dawson studied his friend’s face carefully. Duncan MacLeod had survived another battle, another Quickening. Now the Highlander was here, kneeling before him. To distract himself and Duncan, Joe carefully folded the silk around the katana on his lap. “Scottish authorities came fifteen minutes after you left, “he said with an unsteady voice. “They brought this back.” He sniffed with dark amusement. “They said it wasn’t the murder weapon.”

MacLeod blinked then focused on the sword. He touched the soft covering. His fingertips brushed Joe’s hand as he lifted the sword and stood up. Silently, he put the weapon back into the wardrobe beside the bed then walked over to a pitcher and basin sitting on a side table. He stripped off his ruined shirt and quickly washed his face and hands, cleaned the spots of blood from his side and chest.

Dawson watched all of this, respecting the silence, appreciating the well-developed chest and shoulders. Duncan picked up a towel to dry himself then returned to kneel in front of Dawson. Joe’s mouth went dry as he met the Highlander's dark gaze. MacLeod strong presence sparked with Quickening. Joe felt its touch like an electric current.

“Joe, I had to do it, “MacLeod said softly. “My father’s at rest now." Duncan's fingers traced over Dawson's cheek, wiping the wetness there. Wetness? //Aw fuck-// Joe's vision blurred. Suddenly MacLeod's arms drew him into a tight hug. "It’s all right, “Duncan soothed

Dawson clung to the Highlander, pressed his face against the bare shoulder, consoled by the feel of warm, smooth skin beneath his hands, the unyielding strength in the well-trained muscles. For a hazy space of time it remained this way. Joe found himself gently rocked and took comfort in the safe haven MacLeod offered.

But comfort slowly turned to something else for Joe. Contact. His body tingled as he drew a deep breath, as his mind took in the scent of the Highlander. Exotic. Arousing...

And there it was… that sensation he hadn't felt in years. Attraction. But so much more... something he had felt so long ago in a far away land with another man who had the same charisma... who gave him this need to go further. Dawson swallowed hard and closed his eyes. MacLeod was energized by Quickening. Joe well knew the need that followed for Immortals to balance this within themselves. And here he was, toughing him... feeling the same need. Softly, shyly, his lips touched the bare shoulder under him, then again in an obvious gesture MacLeod could not mistake.

Duncan drew back quickly. Dawson prepared himself for the rejection. Joe Dawson was too old... too damaged... Duncan would be kind but firm.

But instead the dark eyes held him. MacLeod’s brows were knitted in confusion. Then they stretched in surprise. His face softened even as his eye glinted in a way Joe had seen before... with Tessa. Duncan's fingers caressed the mortal's cheek with cautious intimacy. “Are you sure, Joseph?" he asked, his Scottish accent lending a kind of formality. "I do want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time. But I didn’t know… I don’t want to hurt our friendship.”

Joe chuckled as his heart lost some of its armour. “I was thinking the same thing a few days ago, before I came out here." His hand shook as he caressed the Scotsman’s golden skin. "I thought I wouldn’t see you again,” he whispered. His mind filled with images of Duncan MacLeod’s body against his, making love to him. “I really need to know you're here, that you’re alive." His cheeks burned as he made his desire known. "I need you.”

MacLeod’s eyes raked over the American. His expression grew more intense. With careful movements Duncan's broad hands cupped the Watcher’s face, his lips brushed Dawson’s. “Aye, so do I.”

 ****

[Seacouver, USA... Present]

“Here we are." Methos pushed a wheelchair in front of him as he returned. Dawson blinked then sighed as he ended his brief reverie into the recent past. He eyed the device brought to him with disdain. His wheelchair was an unavoidable prison. From the day he left the field hospital in Viet Nam, Joe had worked hard to master the ability to walk on his own using his prosthetics and a cane.

But there were limits. His stumps could not endure the constant friction of the hard plastic that supported him. Many times he could last up to twelve hours so long as he didn’t stand the whole time. But when he returned to his apartment, he had to shed his artificial legs, to be helpless once more. Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe Mac didn’t want to deal with this.

//Don’t be stupid, Joseph! That had nothing to do with it! The issues were bigger than the both of you.//

“Joe?" Strong arms came under Dawson’s shoulders. “Come on. Sit up.”

Dawson moaned as Methos helped him. But the shifting physically unbalanced his already delicate stomach. Joe pushed at the immortal. “I’m sick!" His abdomen convulsed but nothing came up. There was nothing left. Methos' arms came around his shoulders from behind, supporting him as dry heaves wracked his body.

Then it was over. Joe’s head fell back onto Methos' shoulder, the relief overwhelming him. Reality rested on the edge of unconsciousness. The immortal’s embrace tightened reassuringly. Then warm breath touched the mortal’s ear.

“Stay with me, Joe,” Methos urged gently. “It won’t take long, especially if I don’t have to carry you. Yes?" He carefully help Dawson to stand. But as Joe’s weight settled onto his artificial limbs, pain shot through his thighs, into his hips and back. The Watcher cried out, losing his balance completely. “Here, Joe!" Brute force dragged Dawson then dumped him into his wheelchair.

Fighting the pain, Joe felt his pant legs pulled then heard a smooth tearing sound. Dawson looked down. Adam was using a small hunting knife to cut away the fabric. “What are you doing?" he demanded weakly.

“These things are coming off you before they cause more damage." He continued to cut, exposing an array of plastic and metal arranged into a resemblance of lower legs. The immortal briefly examined the mechanisms then sighed. “This might hurt,” he warned then began undoing the small straps and Velcro fastenings.

At first, Dawson felt nothing. Then he gasped as his stumps were freed from their confines. His legs throbbed, his skin protested as his friend removed the cotton sheaths that served as a necessary cushion between himself and the hard plastic cup that supported him.

“You’ve been very naughty,” Methos chided, his attention focused on the stumps. Joe shifted uncomfortably, as much a physical reaction to the probing touches as it was to the mental discomfort of being examined like this. Looking over Methos' shoulder, Joe caught sight of an overturned stool, a broken bottle, and stains of urine and even blood on the floor. Made a real jerk out of yourself Joseph, didn’t you?

“The skin has pressure wounds,” Methos announced as he stood. “We’re going to have to get you cleaned up and get some ointment on those before you get sores.”

“You a doctor?" Dawson quipped, even as he wondered.

“I have been,” Methos answered shortly. His hand tilted Dawson’s face up for examination. “I was a shaman, then a physician over the centuries."

Joe nodded, silently accepting, bracing himself for the expected pain the examination would bring. But instead of pain, delicious warmth flowed from the immortal's touch, soothing his nerves.

“You’ve got a scrape on your scalp, but it’s not deep and the bleeding’s stopped,” Methos announced after a moment. “And you were unconscious I suspect, so a concussion is a possible." His fingers moved away, taking with it some of the comfort, returning some of the pain. “You need a good clean up, some proper sleep, then food.”

“Adam--” Dawson began.

“Don’t talk,” the immortal ordered tersely, his tone clipped. The wheelchair moved forward. “You don’t have anything to say that I want to listen to right now." Dawson opened his mouth to protest, then stopped, sensing anger from his friend for the first time, knowing he was the cause.

The bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, had been customized to his needs. There were bars and handles everywhere, some of it installed by MacLeod to allow Dawson access to every area. Methos rolled him into the bathroom then came to a halt next to a large, custom-made shower stall. Inside the molded plastic formed a deep chair made to comfortably support Dawson during a shower. Joe remembered protesting, but Mac insisted, saying showers shouldn’t be a chore. Joe looked at the Highlander’s handiwork, bittersweet feelings surfacing then leaving him as his attention shifted. I stink like hell, but I don’t want to do this. The Watcher sensed Methos standing behind him, waiting. Please leave me alone, he pleaded silently, his fragile emotions rolling to the next extreme. I don’t want this kind of attention.

“Can you get in yourself? Or shall I help?" Methos asked quietly, coaxing but cautioning against a lengthy answer.

Dawson sighed, knowing there was no escape. “I’ll do it on my own." He began to move--

“No, Joe. Wait." Methos, his expression sternly professional, began to unbutton Dawson’s shirt. “Clothes are not an option. Especially ones you’ve bled, urinated, and thrown up on.”

The immortal's no-nonsense approach and his steady presence kept Dawson quiet. His shirt then undershirt was removed. However, as Methos unbuckled his belt and unzipped the fly, Dawson found himself treated to another close up of the ancient's handsome features, the aristocratic jaw, and sensuous mouth.

His ability to control his emotions were fragile at best. This man's proximity, his touch aroused Joe. His cock quivered. Memory flashed. Decades ago, there had been another man who had peeled him off a dusty floor after a fight. There was a feeling of power to his rescuer, the same feeling he’d sensed in MacLeod when they touched, and now Methos... //Oh god, no.// His waistband was being drawn open, to be moved down. The Watcher bit the inside of his mouth to keep a groan from escaping. His body tightened with anticipation of the next move. No! No! Dawson grabbed the immortal’s wrists, stopping them. “Adam...”

Methos studied him, his expression curious. “Don’t be shy, Joe. There’s nothing I haven’t seen before, honest.”

//I’m sure, but not on me.// Dawson wanted to hide himself, but that was not an option. Instead he masked his panic in an aggressive facade. “I want to do this myself”

Methos sighed then smiled gently, his eyes taking on an odd glow. “All right. Do it yourself. Can you get yourself into the shower?”  
TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Dawson considered the question briefly. The ache in his head was a steady pulse, every muscle in his body cried out in pain, especially his legs. But as Methos moved to continue, Joe quickly cleared his throat. “I’m all right!" he barked, willing to do anything but show himself to the immortal.

Methos frowned as if seeing something more behind the words but put his hands up and backed off. "I'll be in the bedroom. If you need me, call me. I’m not impressed by displays of macho. In fact, right now I’m about as angry as I’ve been in centuries, though I haven’t figured out who I should be directing all this negative energy at-- you or MacLeod."

Then he was gone. Dawson took a moment to slow his racing heart. _What the hell’s going on! Sure, Adam’s got looks. He’s caught my eye before, but I’m with Mac..._

 _Not anymore, Joseph. Where’s the Highlander?_

Joe carefully pushed down his pants and boxers, moaned as the fabric brushed against his aroused cock. _Shit!_ Dawson's hands rolled into fists as the sparks of arousal and emotion spiked sharply. _What’s happening to me? Lose one immortal, lust for another? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?_

He growled at himself then grabbed the bars to lift himself from the wheelchair to his seat within the shower stall. Much to his surprise, he succeeded. Settled, he took the time to look down at himself. He was filthy, and there were bruises popping up everywhere. His hands wandered over his stumps, examining the soft spots where pressure had started to breakdown skin from the inside out. _Just a few steps from ulceration... this could have been a real mess._

Joe turned on the water, set the temperature he wanted, cooler than he usually needed, then reached for the soap and unclipped the showerhead from the wall. The water that flowed over his chest and shoulders felt good. All at once, the energy he had managed to maintain during in his adrenaline rush drained out of him without warning. His eyelids grew heavy, and his awareness slipped onto a haze. The soap fell from his hand to the shower floor with noisy clatter he never heard...

“Joe!”

Methos' sharp call sent a shock wave through Joe, his senses reeled on the edge of falling. Strong hands gripped the Watcher’s shoulders, holding him steady. “I’m sorry,” he muttered vaguely. _I must have passed out._

“Don't apologize,” Methos told him, his tone more soothing. One hand left Dawson, then returned, rubbing over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

Dawson could make no comment. Again his awareness drifted. His body, his mind resisted all attempts to stay alert. _I hurt, and I’m so tired..._

“That’s right,” Methos encouraged, his tone more compassionate. “Just relax, Joe. You’re safe now. I’ll get you cleaned off, then to bed. You’ll feel horrible when you wake up, but at least you won’t smell.”

Well-skilled hands continued their journey over Dawson’s body, leaving warm trails of comfort as they spread the soap over his skin. A timeless moment later, he was rinsed off then a towel was applied. Half conscious, Joe was lifted into his wheelchair, rolled a short distance, then transferred to the cool, soft sheets of his own bed. The warmth of Methos' touch returned, concentrating on his head, swabbing something cold and wet on the wound there. It stung briefly then settled into a dull throb. The immortal moved away one more time, then returned. Vaguely, Dawson was aware of a warm body, fully clothed, press against him from behind.

“I’ve been traveling for well over fifteen hours, Joe,” the immortal whispered. “And I don’t want to sleep alone. Anyway, you need someone to keep an eye on you in case that bump on your head decides to give you problems." Fingers lightly traced over Dawson’s arms and chest in slow circles.

Too exhausted to argue Joe merely grunted. Methos' light, vaguely intimate touch seemed to fill a void left by MacLeod’s departure. “Adam...”

“Go to sleep, my friend,” Methos commanded as he continued his caresses. “Trust me. We’ll talk about you and MacLeod later. All right?”

 _Yeah... I guess._ Dawson floated into a soothing haze, protected by the solid presence of the immortal beside him.

 

The smell of food filtered into his disjointed dreams, beckoning. Joe Dawson rolled onto his stomach, which growled audibly, though from hunger or nausea his brain hadn’t yet decided. And his head... _Feels like it’s going to explode. What happened?_

He remembered returning to his apartment after raiding his own stock from the bar below. He was already mildly drunk but well on his way to full intoxication. There were several shots of whiskey and bourbon. Then more even more... Then...

 _I tried to shift my position on the stool._ He moaned as separate threads of memory surfaced. _Methos found me._ Dawson threw his blanket aside, then pulled it back as he realized he was nude. _Shower... I was in the shower with..._

“Good evening!" Methos strolled into the bedroom, carrying a coffee cup in his hand. Dawson swallowed as he beheld the sight of the ancient immortal. Memories came and went in wisps. When did Adam get here? The best Joe could do was to capture the fleeting sensations of soft touches and warmth.

“Feeling better?" Methos sat down on the edge of the bed, holding out the cup. He was dressed in a simple T- shirt and jeans. His hazel eyes observed Joe carefully. “Here, drink this.”

Dawson made no move to take what was being offered. “Adam, what the hell is going on!" Yelling. He hadn’t meant to yell. His head counter-attacked with a sharp wave of pain. “Shit!”

“Not on the bed,” Methos quipped sarcastically. A warm mug was pressed into Dawson’s hand. “Drink this.”

Joe stared at the liquid’s contents. It was warm, clear- colored, and the aroma... “Smells like... flowers,” he said, mostly to himself. “What is it?”

“Something I learned to whip up a long time ago." Methos folded his arms. “And I won’t tell you anything else until you’ve finished it.”

 _Dammit! I’m not a child!_ Dawson was tempted to spill the contents on the floor and tell the immortal to get out. But there was something in his friend's manner that stopped him. _He’s concerned about me?_ He sniffed the contents of the liquid, hesitating as he wondered if the sweet-smelling drink would only set his stomach reeling over the edge.

“It’s not that bad,” Methos pointed out as if reading his mind. “But it doesn’t taste nearly as good if you let it cool.”

 _Yeah. Yeah. Okay._ Dawson took a small sip. Tastes like herb tea... but something else is in it.... gives it an odd kick. A moment later he had drained the cup and held it out. "There. Happy?" he threw out as his emotions headed back towards depression and some small resentment.

Methos sighed. “Joe, I’m only trying to help." He put the cup on the floor. “It’s a pain killer. But it won’t put you out like modern drugs. In fact, it’s a bit of a stimulant. You should be feeling the effects in about ten minutes.”

Joe shrugged. “What are you doing here?" he asked finally. It was time to talk.

“I came to help you and MacLeod,” Methos admitted honestly. “Amanda called me.”

Amanda. Joe sat up straighter, unconsciously pulling up the sheet that covered him. “What did she say?”

Methos' mouth twitched, his expression softened. “She said she thought you and MacLeod had become lovers. Is that so?”

Dawson was stunned. He knows? Amanda knows? Did MacLeod tell her, or did they all just figure it out? Joe decided to be completely honest. “We got together about a month ago. But it’s over."

“Joe,” Methos admonished. He patted Dawson’s arm. “She was worried about you and MacLeod. She asked me to find out what was going on… she couldn't come." He moved to stand. "I want to talk about this, really. But first, I’m going to have a look at you. Then I’ll leave you to get dressed and come out for dinner."

Dinner? “What time is it?" Dawson asked vaguely.

“It’s nine-thirty at night,” Methos replied. “And, in case you’re wondering, it’s Saturday.”

Shock seeped into Joe’s brain. _Saturday... Christ, I’ve lost almost two days of my life!_ Explorative fingers pressed a sensitive spot along his hairline. “Ow!”

“Sorry." The pressure faded to nothing. “This scrape looks better than I expected. You won’t need a bandage,” Methos assured. He reached for a bottle of peroxide on the bed table and a cotton ball. The memory of cool wetness on his scalp flitted through Joe’s mind. “The lump is looking less threatening, too,” Methos continued efficiently. “How’s your vision?”

“Fine." Dawson could feel tendrils of warmth flow into his body through the immortal's hands. Like last night... I remember this... Joe unconsciously pushed his head towards the touch like a plant towards light. “That feels good,” he muttered without realizing.

“What?" The ancient immortal paused in his work, breaking contact with the mortal. Joe hissed in response to the sudden withdrawal. “Joe! What’s wrong?”

The Watcher struggled against the sudden return of pain the mysterious touch had taken away. “Every time you touch me." Dawson stopped, realizing what he was going to say. He met Pierson’s gaze. “It felt good." His eyes slid away from his friend. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I do." Methos leaned forward, his fingers brushed the Watcher’s graying temples, his voice low, nearly seductive. Delicious warmth filtered through Joe, creating a healing presence in his soul. “I never thought you had the ability, that you were this sensitive, my friend,” he added with a hint of pleasure.

Joe shivered. A pulse of excitement wove into the gentle heat. Sensitive? Methos’ green-hazel eyes glittered with a profound understanding that began to frighten him. “What do you mean?”

Methos smiled his odd smile. His hands cupped Joe’s face. “What do you feel?”

“Your hands are warm,” the mortal answered without thinking. “No. Hot." Joe shifted uncomfortably. It was more... an emotion. It touched him, surrounded him, inside and out, growing more intense as the moments passed. Confused, the Watcher swallowed hard. _I’ve felt this before... a long time ago... then even more with Mac... when we were-_

“This is a part of the Quickening, Joe,” Methos explained, his tone soft.

“I’m sensing a quickening?" Dawson whispered incredibly. Panic set in as he understood. _Only other immortals can feel a Quickening! Or, sometimes, potential immortals..._ He froze. “I’m not--”

Methos shook his head, his eyes twinkling with some humor. “No, you’re not immortal, obviously, or you’d be feeling a lot better. And you’re not a potential. Duncan and I would have known long before now. And without having to touch you.”

“Then what am I?" Joe asked, a little wary of the answer.

Methos let out short bark of laughter as his hands slid over Joe's bare shoulders. “Have you ever heard of ‘gazers’?”

Dawson rolled the word around in his mind. “During my training, someone told me about them. Mortals who could sense immortals." Puzzled, he cocked his head. “But gazers don’t exist!”

“Are you sure?" Methos coninued his soothing caress. “Gazer isn’t a good word, I know. Perhaps I should say people with psychic abilities?”

Now Joe laughed. “Adam, don’t kid with me! Sure, some people have better instincts than others, but rye never gone for that psychic stuff.”

“It exists, you know,” the immortal went on patiently. “Perhaps more often with immortals simply because of how we are. But there are some few mortals who can see us coming a mile away. Fortunately, none that I know of are currently Watchers... well… none except you perhaps.”

“Can immortals sense them?" Dawson asked, curious and intrigued but in no way believing what the ancient man was trying to tell him.

“Only Old Ones like myself,” Methos answered, a hint of tragedy in his voice. “I thought with you... perhaps. But I could never really pick up the... vibes before now."

Joe sighed. Couldn't be. Yet he sensed his friend was being sincere, a rare thing. "C'mon, Adam! I haven’t sensed you guys like that. I can't be psychic!" He smirked. "I'd be a lot richer by now."

"Doesn't work like that, Joseph. It's not like the movies. Psychic abilities are organic, rarely focused without some training. Most simply have good Sight, are better empaths... able to feel the 'difference' when they get physically or emotionally close to one of us. That 'feeling' never tells them we're immortal, simply that we are different in some way.”

Dawson took the information in, remembering. James could do that, spot one just by passing him or her in the street. Joe frowned. His brother-in-law, James Horton, had been a disturbed man who nearly brought all that was good about Watchers to an end. “I think James might have been… a gazer,” he said aloud.

“Oh, I knew he was,” Methos agreed. “Somehow he discovered his talent quite early, and what that ‘feeling’ meant. That’s one of the reasons you and I never got together as often as we could, you know. James was a psychopath who saw demons under every stone. It cost me at least one very good friend in the process.”

Darius. The name came to Dawson as clearly as a thought. He shuddered. “I wish I could have stopped him,” he said with regret. He remembered how loyal he’d been to James, how naive he’d been. “I wish I’d believed Mac the first time he tried to tell me.”

“Wishes like that are useless, Joe,” Methos warned. “Horton is dead and you have done more good for Watchers and Immortals in the last few years than he destroyed in a decade. Remember that." He closed his eyes, then opened them, focusing on Joe in earnest. “How’s your head?”

Joe stared at him, startled by the question. He felt nothing, no pain. He rolled his shoulders. Still stiff but better… a lot better. “That stuff really works,” he said, amazed.

“Good." Methos got up from the bed. “Let me finish with you, then you can do what you need to do. "I’ve made soup and put it in the oven to stay warm.”

At first Dawson didn’t react to the quick removal of the sheet from his legs. The sudden coolness made him look down. The skin around the end of his stumps was patched with red, irritated skin, along with some bruising. But the tone was good, and there were no open wounds.

“This looks much better than I expected but I wouldn’t recommend putting on your prosthetics for a few days.” The ancient continued his exam. “I know how much you hate your wheelchair but you need to give yourself a chance to heal completely.”

“Yeah, I know." Joe thought of how he was going to get around. It had been a long time since he’d been outside his own apartment in a wheelchair. And there were only stairs between his apartment and the bar below. He would have to depend on Methos to get around, a task he didn’t want to burden anyone with, especially a friend.

Warmth erupted once more from the touch on his thighs. Dawson blinked in surprise as he saw only the top of the immortal’s head. Methos knelt by the bed, applying ointment to the irritated skin, rubbing the medicated gel in slowly. The sight was intimate and Methos' presence seeped into Joe’s soul, his being. Against his will Dawson’s cock stirred then rose to become fully erect. Joe held his breath as the situation was taken out of his control, afraid to draw attention by protesting, praying that the immortal would not see....

Methos' head moved, his eyes took in the sight between Joe’s legs then turned upward, glittering playfully. “You’re beautiful when you’re scared to death, do you know that?" He climbed onto the bed, settling on his knees beside the Watcher, leaning forward to rest his hands on either side of Dawson’s chest, his face mere inches from Joe’s. “Well?" Adam invited.

“Well what?" Joe responded automatically, unable to find more words as his mouth dried.

“Joe,” Methos purred, then brushed the mortal’s mouth in encouragement.

Dawson’s senses exploded, his body reacted before his thoughts. He returned the kiss with passion as he opened his mouth and inviting more. He heard a groan erupt from Methos, felt the immortal’s tongue thrust into him, doing things Joe had never imagine could be done, nothing that even came close to what MacLeod had done to him.

Then more coherent thoughts invaded. Joe’s groan turned into muffled denial. He pushed at Methos. “Stop,” he begged softly.

The immortal pulled back immediately, his expression full of concern. “All right?”

Dawson touched his own lips, more to assure himself they were still there. “Adam, I don’t think I can--”

Methos caressed Joe’s cheek. “Is it because of MacLeod? Because you don’t want me?”

“No! Yes!" Joe gripped his hands together, mostly to keep himself from reaching out for what he desired. “It’s not you. I want you. I want Mac." His vision blurred. “I can’t bounce like this! Mac and I had something deep. Then he... threw me away,” Joe’s gut twisted, from hunger and anguish. “Not that I blame him... It was my fault...”

“Stop it!" Methos wiped the ribbon of tears rolling down Dawson’s cheek. “Shhh..." He pulled the mortal close. “Don’t be afraid of what you feel, Joe. I don’t know what happened between you and Duncan but I will tell you now that I will never do what he did. I would never throw you away. You’re too precious a gift.”

Joe pressed himself against his friend, letting his heart break for the first time since MacLeod had left him a week ago. For an eternity, he poured out his hurt, taking comfort in Methos’ mysterious warmth, in the calming words whispered into his ear, in the gentle caresses that stimulated as they soothed.

Somewhere warm lips caressed his in invitation. Dawson gave into it, reached for it without hesitation, desperate for contact. His fingers ran over the smooth chest (when had Adam taken off his shirt?). Methos moaned, then chuckled, deepening their contact, his lips inching their way downward, pausing to lick and nip special areas, concentrating his efforts when Joe gasped in response.

Dawson’s groan became a cry as tight lips closed around his straining cock, the immortal’s expert tongue doing to it what it had done to Joe’s mouth. Caught up in the intense sensations, the Watcher gripped his lover’s head, petting the short, dark, silky hair even as he pressed, urging a rhythm that his lover quickly mastered, increasing the stimulation until Joe found himself writhing helplessly on the bed, begging release even as his mind struggled for a way to keep the experience going on forever.

Energy surrounded Dawson. With new understanding, Joe accepted the invasion, letting it build. With MacLeod, the feeling had been one of pure passion, intense need. But from Methos, it was stronger, older, brighter and darker all at once. The mortal threw back his head, captured by it, fearful, yet unwilling to run from its power, assured that his lover wouldn’t let this go on if it were dangerous, even if he felt like he was about to explode. ¬Dawson cried out as his cock erupted, as Methos' mouth sucked eagerly, hungrily.

Then the energy faded to nothing, and Joe sighed, his body shaking in the aftermath.

“Joe?" Methos’ called gently, his voice low and husky. “Joe, that was wonderful!”

Dawson blinked then peered up at Adam who sat next him bare-chested on the bed, wearing an expression Joe rarely saw on the immortal, pure pleasure. _Because of me?_ Joe reached out, needing the reassurance of touch. Methos took his hand, bending close to kiss Dawson slowly, without urgency. Joe closed his eyes, tasting both himself and his new lover.

Then Methos drew back, his hand cupped Dawson’s cheek. “Dinner won’t keep, my friend. And you need to eat. Yes?”

 _Yes._ Only it wasn’t dinner Joe was thinking about. He slid a hand up Adam’s arm. “What about you?" he asked, noting the jeans were still on the immortal, undisturbed. “I want to-”

Methos smiled softly. “Later, Joe. Later, when we’ve both recovered." He picked up his t-shirt then gave Dawson a quick kiss. “Get dressed and come out for dinner.”

The immortal left him. Stunned, Joe’s head fell back on the bed. “My god, what have I done?" Dawson drew in a deep breath, smelling the scent of Methos on him, around him. _I haven’t felt this good in days._ He let out a long sigh. _Or this guilty in years._ His stomach growled with enthusiasm. Joe raised his head. In a glance he noticed his wheelchair and other personal items were well within reach. _Okay, Joseph. Wash. Dress. Then dinner._

 

 _Damn you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod! What possessed you to hurt Joe like this!_

It took every ounce of discipline Methos had not to throw plates and utensils as he prepared dinner in the apartment’s kitchenette. His nerves still quaked with the pain of Dawson’s loss and grief, even as his privates sighed with pleasure. _Joe’s a handsome man with a beautiful heart. There’s nothing he’s capable of doing that deserved what Duncan did! Nothing!_

Methos stirred the split pea soup on the stove top, taking a ladle to sample his brew. _Not bad,_ he judged. _Of course, not nearly as good as what I had just a few minutes ago._

The immortal smiled. Making love to Joe Dawson had been done on impulse, though it had been a part of some of his better fantasies for years. Adam put the lid back on the pot then walked into the living room to his duffel bag, pulling out a fresh T-shirt. In his need, Joe had craved physical contact. Pierson didn’t have time to strip completely, but Dawson seemed satisfied when he was able to touch his bare chest. _I always knew Joe was sensitive, more than most. But I never thought he was empathic._

It explained so much about the man he’d known for the last ten years, when they had met at a rare gathering of Watchers. It was an opportunity for many Watchers to network, make needed contacts, exchange important information, and, of course, to party.

After forty years in ‘hiding’, the ancient Immortal assumed a new name, Adam Pierson, and started to involve himself in a new generation of Watchers.

His first goal was to meet Joseph Dawson, the man who had just been selected to watch Duncan MacLeod. The Highlander was always of special interest to Methos. Adam believed Darius’ speculation about the young immortal, that MacLeod was perhaps the stuff of legends, the one who would eventually bring an end to The Game and bridge the gap between mortals and immortals. For this reason, Adam made it his business to know who watched the noble Scotsman.


End file.
